


Kindred

by WolfAtSea



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAtSea/pseuds/WolfAtSea
Summary: AU. Set after Scorpia Rising. Alex felt oddly like a normal kid asking to harbour a runaway friend. Except his “friend” was a world-class, supposed-to-be-dead assassin with terrorist groups and intelligence agencies out for his blood. The Pleasures didn’t say no … Sports, domesticity, teenage angst, midlife crises, plus the requisite dose of espionage





	Kindred

Chapter One: The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past

San Francisco was chilly by November. The leaves that stubbornly hung onto the branches in the nearby Golden Gate Park had all turned orange, and outdoor sports practice was going to turn miserable in a few weeks. Suppressing a shiver, 16-year-old Alex Rider moved swiftly to shut the backyard door. The Pleasures' current home was a nice little row house in the Richmond district of San Francisco; classic two-storey with basement, parking on the curb, a small backyard. The street they were on was quiet and absolutely uneventful. Uneventful was probably what Ed Pleasure was looking for. Theoretically, Alex could use some of that too. Both of their neighbour families were Chinese. Sometimes they talked with Liz about cooking and community service, and their kids were decent. The Pleasures' own house kept its original Victorian furnishings, which made it quite the sell. Alex found it painfully stifling. If not for the two thousand-acre parks a few minutes from home, he wasn't sure he'd have managed to stay sane over the past year.

  
Alex shut the sliding door, peering out into the backyard out of old habits. Nothing out of the norm. It was completely dark now, but the light from the first floor illuminated the yard well enough. Alex's adoptive family was off at a friend's house for Thanksgiving dinner. The Pleasures didn't really do Thanksgiving, but they were invited to one this year and they decided why not, grand American experience and all. Alex didn't want an American experience. Sabina and her parents had been trying to convince him to go for a week. In the end, he had to feign an upset stomach to get out of it. Their host's name was Peter Rowe. His whole family was bothersome as hell. Besides, Rowe was a banker. Alex had a distrust for bankers.

  
As he passed the kitchen, he did a double take - two rings of keys on the counter. It seemed that Ed and Liz had both forgotten their keys - again. Alex shook his head and smiled. He didn't need to pretend to sleep when they came back after all. And that was why when the doorbell rang at 10:30 at night, Alex assumed it was his adoptive family returning and finding themselves without a key. As such, he was stifling a yawn as he opened the door, not even bothering to check the peephole. He sure wish he did, for he opened the door to a ghost.

  
A blond-haired, blue-eyed ghost in a button down shirt and a casual black jacket, a dark duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

  
"Alex." The ghost said, barely above a whisper.

  
The teen bounced his weight, gulped, frantically thinking of something to do. This man was dead. Shot. Dead. Alex saw him bleed out. Then how was he here? A gust of wind swirled through the open door, and Alex shuddered. The entire house felt a few degrees colder. Ghosts always made everything feel colder, right? Those silly fantasy stories Tom was so into always said so.

  
"So. Are you the Ghost of Thanksgiving Past?" Alex eventually decided that smart-aleck-ness was the only recourse during a time of crisis. Especially if trouble came to his doorstep when he was in PJs.

  
"Snarky as always, Little Alex. Although, not so little anymore." The ghost said, and smiled. Oh God. Alex almost wished he'd pulled out a gun instead of that smile. Ian Rider's killer was looking at Alex as if he was something of wonder. As if the boy was all he wanted to see at the end of the day and just laying eyes on him made everything better. I'm glad that you're here with me now… Alex wanted to slap himself.

  
"What do you want, Yassen?" Cut to the chase. Keep it smooth, Rider.

  
The smile fell a little. "I just … I just wanted to see …" The ghost was grasping for words. He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked tense. Somewhat uncomfortable too. Yassen Gregorivich never looked uncomfortable. This was so unfair, Alex cursed inwardly. It was so much easier to hate him when he appeared all lethal and invincible.

  
"I don't know, Alex. This whole - it was difficult, I thought -" There was something dangerously close to desperation in his voice as he struggled to say something that couldn't be said. "I … I need to stop."

  
"You need to stop what?" Alex frowned. He didn't peg Yassen for one to speak in riddles.

  
Yassen shifted, straightening his shirt, and Alex's sharp eyes spotted a dark stain on the crisp white shirt that wasn't there before. It was dark brown in the dimmed lighting and growing slowly.

  
"You're bleeding." Alex remarked crisply. Ghosts don't bleed, do they? Ghosts don't carry around duffle bags, either, proverbs on emotional baggage be damned.

  
The assassin looked down and winced. "Nasty business early this morning. I - I was in a hurry. Nothing serious."

  
So the infamous Yassen Gregorivich was back in the game, Alex mused. But he wasn't here on business, was he? Surely if Yassen had been here to terminate Alex or his adoptive family, he wouldn't have bothered with the doorbell? Then what was he doing here? Alex was confused. And like most people his physical age, when he was confused, he had the unfortunate knack to be … impulsive. Yes, impulses. Alex really only had those pesky little things to blame for what he did next.

  
"You might as well come in." He said, stepping back. "Liz would probably think it's bad manners to let people stand bleeding on the doorstep …" Well, he wouldn't exactly know what Liz felt about people bleeding in front of her house - Alex supposed she would frown upon any bleeding in general. It was the principle of the thing. "Or in the doorway … for God's sake, come in."

  
He directed Yassen to the living room, then, not trusting himself to say anything else, made a beeline for the first aid kit in the upstairs bathroom. When he came back, the assassin was standing in the midst of vintage Victorian decorations, a curious look on his face.

  
"All very old lady like, I know. Come here - it's brighter in the kitchen."

  
Alex set the kit on the kitchen island and cleaned up the surface. He was thankful Liz kept a rather spotless kitchen. Yassen settled on one of the breakfast stools and watched him.

  
"Hunter always tried to be funny when he was nervous. When we were in a tight spot. He thought if he could snark like James Bond, he could probably luck out like him as well."

  
"You don't make me nervous." Alex snapped, not quite meaning it. He was half hoping Yassen wouldn't bring up John Rider. Perhaps that was too much to ask for. "Now strip."

  
Yassen did so quickly. Modesty had no place in their line of work. Alex tried not to stare at the scars. Peeling away blood-soaked gauze, the assassin revealed a nasty looking cut on his left side, just below the ribs.

  
Alex winced. "You should've gotten stitches.'

  
"Probably." Yassen agreed, then repeated. "I was in a hurry."

  
Alex prepped a needle and held it out before changing his mind. "You can't reach it very well, can you?"

  
"Bit of an awkward angle, no."

  
"Okay." Alex shifted a little closer, ready to play doctor. "I'm really rusty at this." He admitted.

  
"You'd better practice then?" Yassen replied calmly, utterly unfazed by the prospect of being a teenage medic's lab rat.

  
"Okay." Alex chuckled nervously, and set to work. There was no good explanation for why he was doing this. Professional courtesy, maybe, from one denizen of the underworld to another. He worked silently for the next ten minutes or so, afraid to break concentration. His patient winced and twitched a bit, but cooperated for the most part. Alex didn't have anesthetic on hand, and decided against breaking into Ed's alcohol cabinet. The Russian didn't complain.

  
"There. All done." Alex announced cheerfully after the last bandage was taped down. Yassen pulled on another shirt before joining Alex in clean up. The teen stowed away the first aid kit, then poured them both glasses of water.

  
"It wasn't faked." He ventured. "I saw the scar."

  
Yassen put down his glass and nodded with a slight smirk. "No. It hurt like hell. Then again, you would know better than anyone."

  
Alex tensed instinctively at that. "You know about that?"

  
"Yes. I know about that." Yassen's voice was clipped. Alex wondered if he was imagining some regret there.

  
"So what happened after? After the crash?" Alex's mind was whirling, weighing the possibilities, chucking out theories. It wasn't everyday that a dead man showed up on your doorstep. Not that he bothered to check for a pulse at the time. Not that he'd ever forget watching those blue eyes close.

  
"MI6 had me for a good few months. They wanted … information." Yassen said matter-of-factedly. Alex didn't ask what '6 did to him - wasn't sure he wanted to know what they did to him.

  
"And then?"

  
"Then I found a way out, of course. I was constantly on the run for half a year until some old acquaintances took me in. I recovered some more, then repaid them in assignments. This morning I finished the last one. I must confess I suddenly find myself with not much to do."

  
Alex swished the water around in his glass, thoughtful. "And you found out where I lived."

  
"I've been keeping tabs on you for a while." The assassin admitted.

  
Not creepy at all. "So you know about Jack."

  
"Yes. I'm very sorry, Alex." And there was that. There was nothing more Alex could say. The grandfather clock in the family room ticked and tocked. The spy and the assassin sat in silence.

  
"I'd better leave." Yassen stood up very suddenly. "I made sure I wasn't being followed, but there is no telling if the CIA has eyes on this house."

  
"You don't have to - if they did, they'd know you're here already." Alex dismissed it flippantly. "Besides, I'm pretty sure they don't care any more. I'm done with the CIA and all that crap."

  
"Perhaps. But the longer I am here, the more attention I draw to you." Yassen countered, all calm and logic. Logic was so stupid. "I should leave while it is dark out."

  
Alex stood up too, his throat suddenly feeling a little tight. "Yassen, I -"

  
"Look, Alex," The assassin said, painfully earnest. "I came here because I wanted to see you. It was - it was a moment of weakness, shall we say. You have a life here. You are done with that world, and I'm glad for it. Just my coming here can take that all away. I'm sorry - it was selfish of me. I have no excuses."

  
Alex was silent. He was staring resolutely at the pattern that lined the kitchen floor.

  
"I'll take my leave now before anything can happen." Yassen concluded, sounding so stupidly cool about this. He had his emotionless mask on again. And he sounded so patronizing just now. Alex hated it.

  
"Fine. Leave, disappear, whatever." The teen said coldly. Then not-so-coldly. "No, you know what? I've had enough." He tried to be mature about this, he really did, but it was all too much: the frustration of pretending to be normal for the past year but never quite making it, the loneliness of having no one to turn to, the pain of losing everyone that really, really understood him one by one over the years … "No excuses - do you know what you had no excuses for? How about telling a kid to go find his destiny with a bunch of terrorists so people can try to kill him all over again? How's that for no excuses, hmm? Oh and what about saving someone's life and saying that you fucking loved them and then not bothering to drop a line to say you're not really dead? Did you - were you ever going - did you think I wouldn't care?" His voice broke a little on the last word, and he prayed that the assassin wouldn't notice. It didn't matter in any case. Yassen shrank back rather uncharacteristically, caught off guard by the vehemence of Alex's outbreak.

  
Alex noticed several things. One, he was as tall as the assassin now. He hadn't noticed it before, but now it was obvious - being able to yell at an adult straight into his face was refreshing. Two, all of a sudden, the Russian looked old. To Alex, almost everyone in his spy life was old, but still. He'd never thought of Yassen as old; more of a deadly predator at its prime, timeless and always vital. In reality, he was only thirty something. His rather youthful features were hardly marred by a line, but it was his eyes that told a different story. Too much pain. Exhaustion. Resignation.

  
And in that moment Alex realized something scary. The man in front of him was close to giving up. And giving up was no good in their business - giving up got people dead faster than anything. Yassen might have survived Air Force One, somehow, but if Alex let him walk away now, he was going to get himself killed. And Alex couldn't live with that. No matter what he felt towards this man now - hatred or a morbid admiration or a strange sense of kinship - not seeing him ever again was not something he would appreciate. His uncle's killer was also the last link to his father. MI6 could tell him all about John Rider's patriotism and heroics; Scorpia was all too willing to laud Hunter's remarkable skill and ruthlessness; neither would talk, with a faint smile, about Alex's dad as a wannabe James Bond. For that alone, he was inclined to keep him around for a bit longer.

  
"There are so many questions I need answers to." Alex said quietly, willing Yassen to hear what he wasn't spelling out. "There are so many things I don't know about you." His nose and eyes still felt too hot for his dignity. He wasn't sure how long he could hold it together.

  
Yassen hesitated, uncertain. Alex knew he was right. I need to stop - hadn't Yassen just told him himself? There was something wrong with him even though he was too prideful to beg for help. Alex wasn't too shy to offer.

  
"You can stay here tonight. Or for a little while, really. We have an empty bedroom upstairs." He laid it out, word by word. "Maybe stick around until the stitches come out?"

  
"All right." The assassin finally smiled, an expression that didn't look so out of place on him as the first few times. "All right." And the Pleasures choose that moment to pull up in front of the house.

  
"I dread this particular conversation," Alex gritted his teeth and went to open the door, giving this proactive approach a spin. "Hey guys."

  
"Alex! You're not in bed? Anyway," Sabina showed him the box she was carrying as they walked up to the house. "We swiped you some pie for when your stomach is up for - Shit!" That was when all three Pleasures saw the man standing casually in their own doorway and stopped dead. "But that is -"

  
"Yes! I've got everything under control. Could everyone please come in, close the door, and not freak out!" Alex half pleaded, half ordered. His adoptive family followed willingly enough. Alex shepherded everyone into the relative privacy of the family room before starting.

  
"It's a really long story, but the gist is," He glanced at Yassen, who was his normal closed-off and aloof self again, "He's saved my life quite a number of times, and I trust him not to harm any of us. He's just looking for a place to stay."

  
There was, of course, the matter of parental permission. Alex felt oddly like a normal kid asking to harbour a friend running away from his parents. Only instead of a teenage rascal fleeing a bad home life or overbearing parents, his "friend" was a world-class, supposed-to-be-dead assassin with the law, half a dozen terrorist groups, and most intelligence agencies in the world out for his blood.

  
His adoptive parents didn't say no. They were probably uncertain about what would happen should they refuse the polite request of a teenage spy on behalf of a contract killer, and had more common sense than to find out.

  
"Empty bedroom is upstairs, second door on the right. You can use the bathroom next to Alex's room." Ed managed to keep his voice even. Yassen thanked him courteously and disappeared upstairs.  
Three pairs of eyes instantly focused on Alex, who squirmed a bit before shifting into his best negotiation stance.

  
"If I say my stomachache wasn't faked, can I just go to bed right now and we can save the interrogations for … maybe tomorrow?"

 


End file.
